End of Eternity 2 Read online

  “I’m coming with you,” I inform him.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not in your current condition, Carmen.”

  My eyes narrow, and I glare at my phone. “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

  After hanging up, I don’t skip a beat. I’m tired of taking no for an answer. I immediately dial Lauren from the station.

  “Hey, doll!” she answers. “How are you feeling?”

  I maintain my same cool composure, and friendly businesslike manner. “So much better, Laurie. Thanks for visiting me in the hospital. It meant so much to me. I’m calling because I need some big favors.”

  “Sure, hun. Anything at all! What can I do?”

  “It’s about this guy, Bradford West…”

  “Oh yeah, the cutie at the hospital? Such a hunk! What about him?”

  “Well, I’m thinking of starting to date him, but I’m not sure. I was wondering if I could borrow one of your private investigators…”

  “Really, doll? That doesn’t seem like your style.”

  “Okay, you got me. The real reason I want him followed is that I think he might have information about my husband’s death, or somehow be involved. I’m not saying he killed my husband, because they were best friends—but they could have been involved in something dangerous together. What do you think?”

  “Ooh, that sounds scary and exciting. Could make a good story! Sure, I’ll put someone on it. His name is Bradford West?”

  “He’s a lawyer in Manhattan. But there’s probably more to him than that.”

  “I’ll have someone tail him and take photos, doll. I’ll figure out whatever you need to know. I’ll also have someone look into your husband’s past, while I’m at it.”

  “Thanks, Laurie.”

  “Anytime!”

  After hanging up on Lauren, I lean back in my chair, tapping my pen on the desk. I am sitting in the room that Grayson used as his office, and I have been combing through every file folder, every notebook, every SD card, every hard drive. I am no longer going to be a blindly trusting, foolish and naïve woman. I’m going to be in charge.

  My phone rings again, and I am pleased to see that it’s Owen calling. Reaching out, I eagerly slide my finger across the screen to answer the call.

  “Good morning,” I say to him brightly.

  “Hey… Carmen? You sound different.”

  “I’m feeling better now,” I explain as I lean forward to continue sifting through the papers on Grayson’s desk. Most of his work seems to be notes on various stocks and his projections for them, but there are some scribbles and shorthand in the margins that I don’t understand.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better, but don’t push yourself,” Owen cautions. “Not sure if you still want to go through with donating, but I did some research on the milk banks. You have to make an appointment to get some blood tests and do an interview before they can accept your milk, but then you can basically pump the milk and store it at home in the freezer, and periodically ship it to them. They should provide the bottles, but you will need to get a pump.”

  “That sounds good,” I tell him, lifting a hand to touch one of my painful and sensitive breasts. “When can I go in for the appointment?”

  “If you’re not busy, I could pick you up and take you in for 3 p.m. today? Maybe I can come a little earlier so we can go for lunch?”

  “Sure. It’s a date.”

  “Carmen? You sound really different… I’m worried. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. Today, I finally feel like myself again.” As I flip over one of Grayson’s papers, I see a number scrawled on a small yellow sticky note. Apartment #1163. The initials B.W. are in the corner, leading me to believe that it leads to Brad’s place. I consider the fact that his twenty-four hours of ‘tidying up’ might be intended to remove some sort of evidence—something he doesn’t want me to see. I am filled with a strange urge to examine Brad’s apartment myself, but knowing the door number isn’t enough. I start racking my brain and trying to determine a method of finding out his full address.

  There is one place you haven’t searched, says my daughter’s voice inside my head. Grayson’s car. If you scan through my father’s GPS, you should be able to find Brad’s address.

  This idea causes me to bolt straight up.

  “Hey, Owen. This might be a little spontaneous, but instead of lunch, how do you feel about breaking and entering?”

  “Are you inviting me to be your accomplice for criminal activity?”

  “Yes. I need to search Brad’s apartment.”

  “Count me in.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I haven’t done anything like this since high school,” Owen says with enthusiasm as we crouch outside Brad’s apartment door. “Once, I stole test scores in an attempt to get a higher grade than Liam. The funny thing is, I ended up forgetting the answers and he got a higher score anyway.”

  I smile as I watch him pick the lock. He is not very good at it, but I am just grateful that he’s trying to help me. “Thanks for coming, Owen. I was going to bring your scarf with me, but I forgot it at home.”

  “Keep it,” he says as he fiddles with the lock. “You can return it to me next time. Or you can forget it again, so that we’ll always have an excuse to see each other. Eureka!”

  The lock clicks and the doorknob turns, and Owen pushes the door open. We both peer into the apartment curiously. I am startled to find that there is absolutely nothing in the place. There is no furniture, no carpets, no knickknacks or souvenirs. It doesn’t look like anyone has ever lived here. Strangely enough, the windows are boarded up with cardboard and tape, giving the apartment a very dark and sinister vibe.

  “Well, that’s not creepy at all,” Owen says, staring in puzzlement. He moves forward into the room, and begins scanning all the adjacent rooms. “There’s a bed here. Well, if you can call it a bed. It’s like a thin, dirty mattress on the floor—smaller than the one in your treehouse.”

  I walk inside and glance at the bed in question. That doesn’t make sense. Brad is a wealthy lawyer who can afford expensive suits and cars—and even this apartment in a pricey, desirable Manhattan location. “Why would he be living in these conditions?” I murmur to myself as I continue to examine the apartment. “Maybe this isn’t where he actually lives?”

  I walk down the corridor, checking out the other rooms, and I am suddenly hit by a strange smell. I lift my sleeve to cover my nose, and a chill runs through me.

  Is it a dead body? I am afraid to find out, but I can’t stop walking forward. When I reach the room which seems to be the source of the smell, I grasp the doorknob and try to push it open. It’s locked. I fiddle with the handle, but it seems stuck. Finally, I gather all my strength and give it one big heave, and the door slides open.

  I recoil in disgust as the smell bombards me. “What the fuck?” I whisper, peering forward in horror. I am startled to find a room filled with cages containing various animals and birds. There are miserable looking cats and pigeons. Some of the animals are dead, and all of them look emaciated and abused. There are feathers, fur, and feces littering the newspaper-covered ground.

  Owen is immediately at my side, and puts an arm around me in an attempt to shield me as he pushes the door further open. We can both only stare, for there are no appropriate words to describe the putrid, rotting stench and the sickening sight.

  “Hey, Carm?” Owen says softly. “At the risk of sounding repetitive, I really don’t think you should date this guy.”

  I would normally smile at such a comment, but my face is contorted and tense from trying not to breathe in the rancid air. I suddenly notice an object in the corner of the room that seems familiar. I step forward, covering my nose and mouth with my sleeve.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Owen asks.

  I squint and tilt my head, and I am surprised to make out the shape of an urn. My husband’s urn. Braving the stomach-churning smells, I step forward, s
trategically trying to step around the numerous piles of feces. I am wearing a new pair of black suede pumps that I bought the day my husband died, and I am fairly certain that if I step in the wrong place, the shoes will be ruined forever. Tiptoeing carefully over to the urn, I crouch down to examine the simplistic container. There is a piece of paper near the urn that has an address scrawled on it. I can’t make out all the numbers and letters in this dim lighting, but I think I see the word Detroit. I am fairly certain that this is what I came here to retrieve.

  Tucking the paper into my pocket, I grasp the urn with both hands.

  “Here,” Owen says between bouts of coughing. “Let me take that. Let’s get the hell out of here, Carm.”

  I nod and let him pick up the urn, and I go back to navigating across the feces-covered floor. Shuddering violently, I try to fight down the bile that is rising in my throat. Once I am safely in the corridor, I turn to see that Owen is right behind me. I quickly shut the door and wipe down the handle.

  “God,” I whisper. “What a weirdo. And he called my husband a psychopath?”

  “That’s generally what psychopaths do to feel better about themselves,” Owen says with a grimace. “Come on, Carm. I feel like if we stay in this apartment for one second longer, we’re going to end up getting axe-murdered.”

  Nodding, I briskly walk out of the apartment, with Owen close on my heels. “I can’t believe that just happened,” I whisper as we shut the door behind us. “I expected to find something suspicious, but what was that?”

  “I don’t know,” Owen says quietly, “but at least we rescued your husband!” He holds up the urn in triumph as we move down the hallway toward the elevators. “I can’t say I’ve been on many dates where I kidnapped a girl’s dead husband from a creepy murder house.”

  “Not the most romantic lunch ever,” I say hoarsely as I stare at the urn.

  “What are you going to do now that you’ve been reunited with your burnt beloved?” Owen asks.

  “I’m going to go to that milk bank appointment with you, and then hop on a plane to Detroit.” I pull the paper out of my pocket as we step into the elevator. “This is where my husband’s family lives. I’ve never met them, but I think I’ll find more answers there. Will you drive me to the airport?”

  “Of course,” Owen says, “but let’s stop by my place after the milk bank. It’s not too far, and I think we could both use a shower to wash off the smell of dead animals.”

  “Definitely,” I say quietly.

  “Carmen? I feel like I need to say this again. You really shouldn’t date that guy.” Owen makes a face as his shoulders are gripped with a little shudder. “Please don’t date that guy.”

  “Why not?” I ask Owen with a self-deprecating smile. “He’s just my type.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Was it really that painful?” Owen asks me as I lie on his couch, holding my breasts in agony. He is sitting on the coffee table and looking at me with worry.

  “Yes,” I murmur miserably as I cup the sensitive mounds. “It was like having my tits hooked up to a vacuum cleaner. Thanks a lot, Owen.”

  A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, but I send him a warning glare. If he laughs, I won’t hesitate to smack him. I came here intending to have a shower before heading to the airport, but it turns out that what I really needed most was a few minutes of rest.

  “I’m sorry, Carm. I didn’t realize it was going to hurt. It was just a tutorial! I’m sure it will be fine once you get the hang of it.”

  “You could have warned me,” I tell him, wincing. “Aren’t you supposed to be the expert on boobs?”

  “I thought I was,” he says honestly. “In the porn videos, all the girls seem like they really enjoy having vacuum cleaners hooked up to their boobs!”

  Reaching behind my head for one of the sofa’s throw pillows, I chuck it at him in anger. He catches it and laughs lightly.

  “Come on, Carm. Was it really all horrible? Don’t you feel a little better now? There should be less pressure and some relief from the pain you were feeling before.”

  “There is,” I tell him with a nod. “I am also glad that I donated some milk. But now my nipples are sore as hell. I guess I just can’t win.” Turning to the side with a groan, I retrieve my phone to resume looking up last-minute flights to Detroit. I still feel a little queasy and apprehensive about flying there without knowing what’s on the other end. There isn’t a phone number to call, and I’m worried that Grayson’s mother and family members will be really horrible people. What if they don’t appreciate the impromptu visit from a bearer of extremely bad news?

  “I can try to take the time off work to come with you,” Owen offers. “It’ll be tough, but I don’t feel so great about letting you go off on your own to swim in potentially-shark infested waters.”

  Shaking my head, I return to looking at the flights. “I need to do this alone.”

  “Carmen, slow down. Doesn’t it seem a bit hasty to hop on a plane and head to the first address you found lying around in a murder house?”

  “It wasn’t a murder house,” I say in dismissal. “It was just… my boyfriend’s crib. He might have a unique taste in interior design, slightly inspired by horror movies, but who are you to judge? Your apartment is so colorful that it looks like the Teletubbies ate grenades and exploded here.”

  Owen looks around sheepishly. “Caroline buys everything. I have learned not to argue.”

  I have wondered about the location of the infamous Caroline. She might be out at work or doing errands. I feel a little uncomfortable being in their home, alone with Owen, even though we are only friends. I wonder if she’d be upset. Glancing up at a photo on the wall, I observe a beautiful woman in a purple bridesmaid dress standing on Owen’s arm. “Is that her?” I ask him.

  “Yes. That was a friend’s wedding, back when we were in college. A shotgun wedding,” he explains with a grin.

  I’ve never seen him in a suit before, and he cleans up pretty nicely—even if his special-occasion wear isn’t nearly as nice as Brad’s everyday wear. The colossal smile on his face gives the suit plenty of warmth and character, and I am completely certain that the clothes do not make the man. Besides: who knows where Brad got the money to buy his suits? I am a little scared to find out.

  “Are you ready to deal with this Brad situation yet?” Owen asks me in a quiet voice. “Do you think we should call the police about what we saw?”

  “No,” I say immediately, and I am angered by my conflicted feelings on the matter. “I just… I don’t want to hurt him without knowing the whole story. Maybe there’s some kind of explanation.”

  “Explanation? For what we saw?” Owen’s face displays shock and disgust. “Carmen, he’s got to be a serial killer or something! He’s going to go all Texas Chainsaw Massacre on you as soon as he gets a chance! That’s the only explanation.”

  “It can’t be,” I say quietly. “There’s more to the story. He’s been kind of a jerk, but I can see that there’s some goodness inside him. There must be some reason for this. I just need to believe in people. I mean—he was my husband’s best friend.”

  “And your husband was a rapist,” Owen reminds me. “They could have met at a Rapists Anonymous meeting. They could have spent years covering up each other’s crimes. Their motto could have been ‘Bros before dead hoes in the back of the trunk that we’re going to bury in a field!’” He turns away from me and angrily tosses the small pillow across the room. “For god’s sake, woman! What’s wrong with you? Dump this bastard! Kick him to the curb ASAP! Why are you stalling?”

  “Because I need to know everything, Owen. Every little detail. If I screw Brad over without fully understanding what we saw, I might come to regret it later. I’m all alone, and I need him. I know it sounds pathetic, but it’s true. I need him.”

  Owen reaches up to run both of his hands through his hair as he releases a guttural groan. “I’m starting to think that you’re missing a few screws,
Carmen.”

  “I’m trying to be careful and patient,” I tell him, sitting up in the sofa. “If this address doesn’t lead me to Grayson’s family, then Brad’s the only one who can give me answers. I don’t want to make an enemy of him.”

  “You slept with him, didn’t you?” Owen asks with an accusing look.

  I recoil and look away in embarrassment as my cheeks redden. “Yeah, so?”

  “Carmen!”

  “Shut up, Owen. I really needed the comfort. It was right after Grayson died: Helen was sick, Dad was sick, and you had just rejected me.”

  “I didn’t reject you!” Owen complains. “I kissed you back with great vigor and gusto.”

  “Right before you told me that you had a girlfriend,” I remind him. “That was upsetting, Owen. You shouldn’t have kissed me back or led me on. You should have told me sooner.”

  “Stop blaming me for your bad choices,” Owen says firmly. “It’s making me feel guilty and I don’t like it. I told you that I’d always be here for you, and I meant it. I’ll never let you down, Carm. So don’t go running off into the arms of random serial killers and say that it’s my fault. I’m right here for you.”

  “I know,” I tell him softly. “I’m sorry. I’m just so upset and confused right now.”

  Owen takes one of my hands in both of his. “I’m your friend, Carmen. A good friend is worth more than all the big, shiny penises in the world. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?”

  Lowering my eyes, I laugh lightly. “Since my sister left three years ago, I guess I haven’t really had any good friends.”

  “Well, now you do,” he assures me, squeezing my hand.

  The sound of a key turning in a lock startles us both, and Owen and I rip our hands away from each other like guilty teenagers caught by a parent. When Caroline enters the room and looks at us, I can see a shadow of worry passing across her face. She immediately clears her throat and offers us both a bright smile.

  “Carmen, I assume?” she says with a gorgeous exotic accent. She moves into the room, offering me her hand. “Owen’s told me so much about you.”